The Morning After
by Dita
Summary: This is a post season 1 fic that I wrote ages ago... It is possibly the first piece I wrote. As usual... it's a short musing of mine.


Sinbad yawned as he slowly emerged from the depths of a very deep slumber. His head pounded and he knew that he'd had one too many grogs the night before. Several too many, he thought as a wave of nausea passed over him. As he moved to get up, he encountered a resistance. Odd, he thought to himself, but it was then that he realized he was not alone in the bed. He slowly opened his eyes and gazed at the woman who was draped across his bare chest. She was lying sprawled, almost entirely on top of him, and her face was angled towards him. From the ache of his body, he knew that the previous night had not been tame. He gingerly reached out and fingered one of the red curls cascading across his chest. He curled his finger around it and tugged at it playfully, as its owner continued to sleep. A half-smile worked its way to his lips.

He looked down at her lovely face; the features so delicate and fine. Peering at her closed lids, he could already imagine himself drowning in her deep brown eyes. Laying back onto the pillows, Sinbad sighed his contentment. Smiling, he closed his eyes again and indulged himself in his own little fantasy about a certain sorceress. "Mmmmm...Maeve" he murmured softly and almost unconsciously. The name slipped past his sleepy lips and slashed through his mind like a thousand sharp daggers, instantly bringing his eyes open. Maeve was gone, he had to stop thinking of her. Shifting his eyes back to the stranger he held in his arms, he realized that she did indeed bare a resemblance to Maeve. But it was so slight. He gazed down at the still sleeping woman, trying to see the similarities that had seemed so striking the night before.

The crew had been at a huge party, held by the Caliph of course. Food and wine had been plentiful. Not to mention the women. After flirting with several blondes for a few hours, he'd finally become bored with their monotonous questions about 'boats' and gone to find a servant to refill his cup. The wine was free so he intended to get too drunk to remember his own name. And that was when he saw her. A vision of beauty standing just across the room. Sinbad still wasn't sure if he'd actually thought she was Maeve or not. Granted her hair was curly and red, but it lacked that fiery hue that only Maeve's hair possessed. It's shorter too, Sinbad thought as he ran his fingers through the tangles once again. Her face, while quite pretty in its own respect, was nothing compared to the beauty in Maeve's features. This woman possessed a quiet type of beauty, whereas Maeve was undeniably and absolutely drop dead gorgeous. Her looks were like a slap in the face to Sinbad. And anyone caught looking would likely suffer a slap in the face as well. Sinbad grinned ruefully at that thought. His fiery sorceress had been gone far too long. Well over a year now, he mused.

In that time, Sinbad had allowed himself to slip into darkness. And the change had come about so gradually, that no one had noticed until it was too late. Oh, he still fought for the side of good , but his zest for life had died long ago. He now faced the world, and their adventures, with a darker outlook. There was no time for fun along the way, no time for exploring. He simply completed the task set before him with deadly determination. The woman he held, he couldn't remember her name, stretched slightly, bringing him back to his present situation. He held his breath as she settled back into sleep. He had no desire to wake her. It was easier to leave if they were still asleep. No awkward goodbyes or false promises to be made.

A wave of guilt struck him as he slowly tried to disentangle himself from the redhead. He found himself doing this more and more often. He didn't like who he had become. He'd become a lecher almost overnight. I'm surprised I don't have an entire harem yet, he thought. There was a time, not long ago, when he was actually appalled by men who bedded women out of lust and then just left them while they slept. Back then, he'd been different. Happier. But that was the old Sinbad. And the new Sinbad merely got off of the bed and began to search for his clothing. Ah, there they are, he thought as he spotted his black leather pants crumpled in the corner. He could almost say he felt disgusted by his actions, but something kept him from waking the woman to say goodbye. Maeve wouldn't like the new him he decided. She had standards. Morals. She was respectable, and expected others to act the same way. Now, he had become everything she had hated about men. And he'd done it partly to prove to himself that he didn't need her approval...or love.

Yet the change in his outward appearance was small in comparison to the changes he'd gone through inside. And he wondered, not for the first time, if she would even want him when she returned...he paused at this thought... _if_ she returned. But his mind told him no. Of course she wouldn't want him now, she hadn't wanted him then either. He'd been a fool for the entire year she'd spent on the Nomad. Pretending not to care; acting like a stubborn child; and hiding behind memories of Lea and a long ago broken heart. Now, it was too late, and he only had himself to blame.

As the fog over his mind began to lift, Sinbad began to recall certain intimate details of the previous night. He groaned out loud when he remembered whose name he had called out in that moment of passion. And he briefly wondered if this woman had been too drunk... or indifferent to care. That thought didn't upset him in the least. Then again, it hadn't been the first time; and none of his previous conquests had complained either. He couldn't understand these women who were practically lining up on the docks just to bed him. Were they so eager to sleep with Sinbad, Master of the Seven Seas, that they didn't care if he was only using them? He justified his actions by never leading them on. He didn't seduce them, or make false promises. Rather, he let them do the seducing, and when in bed he accepted what pleasure they could offer without really making an effort to reciprocate. But why would he when he wasn't in it for love. They were temporary vessels of relief, nothing more.

Now fully clothed, he reached for the door handle. Running a hand through his long greasy hair, he glanced back at the bed. From this distance, he could understand how he had mistaken this woman for his beloved Maeve. In his half drunken stupor he had looked at her, seen that hair, and the brown eyes, and thought of the one woman he truly wanted, and who was virtually unattainable. She was tall too, he'd noticed that last night. And although not apparent at the moment, he knew from last night that she was a very shapely woman. He knew she deserved more than this, and for a moment he turned back towards the bed. Damn me, he cursed himself inwardly for being such a coward. With a sigh he opened the door and silently left.


End file.
